by Stephen Orr
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘You were always determined.’
Standing in the newsagent, years ago, showing me how all the cuts fit together, saying, ‘Before I’m eighteen.’
‘Good luck.’
Explaining what bit did what, but how you had to be careful if you were doing it in the dark.
We stopped in front of the photo machine. Five shots for a dollar. Curtis fumbled in his pocket. Nothing. ‘Got a dollar?’
‘Why?’
‘She said she likes my arse.’
I handed it over, and he went in, fumbled, waited for the flash, then re-emerged.
‘You didn’t?’
But he had. Five shots. Half-moon. With a big, ugly crack.
Back to Gleneagles, through the primary school, Yellow bird, up high in banana tree, as it had been years ago, when Mr Gottl had first taught us. Still, it seemed a noble thing, keeping the flame burning, as knickers and work shirts blew in the breeze over galvanised fences and lives as rust-proof and make-do as our own. ‘I gotta go home and learn,’ I said.
The Grade Fours were still lined up, waiting to be tagged, to run to the yellow flag and back, because somehow it’d make their lives better.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I can prove it.’
Down Ashfield Street, across the mound to the Housing Trust flats with their pit bulls and stumped Toranas. Number thirteen. Knock, knock. But instead of Tracey, an older woman, smelling of mum.
Curtis introduced himself and asked if Tracey was home and mum agreed, reluctantly. ‘You’re the one she does art with?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Trace! And who’s this?’
‘Clem—me mate.’
She didn’t like the look of this at all. But Tracey emerged, led us into the garden and Curtis gave her his snaps, and she smiled and said, ‘Don’t let him see—it’s private, eh?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘You wanna come in?’
But Curtis noticed mum, holding the blinds open. ‘Maybe not. I better go home and learn.’
‘Okay.’ Despite seeing the curtain moving, she took his arm, squeezed it and kissed him.
‘Can’t wait for next Thursday,’ Curtis said.
‘Ssh!’ She punched him.
He turned to me. ‘We’re goin’ to the movies—’ And back to Tracey. ‘Aren’t we, Trace?’ And he winked at her, and she said, ‘Yeah, that’s it, the movies.’
Walking home, Curtis said, ‘Think you owe me an apology.’
‘Fuck!’ As she walked past again. ‘Fuck!’ Twitched a few times, carried on.
You had to feel sorry for her. Curtis saw the humorous side (of course), imagining what it would’ve been like having Tourette’s in Thomo’s class, or Jacob’s economics, answering every question with a fuck, as they were forced to smile, and continue, Anyone know? Three factors affecting GDP?
I sat on my bed, focusing, watching her continue down the street.
3/vi/84 It’s a pity, because she’s pretty good-looking. Years ago a couple of kids started teasing her, riding their bikes around her, saying things like, What’s it like to be spaz? Me and Curtis watched and Curtis said they shouldn’t get away with it and I said whatcher gonna do? He stormed out the door, picked a couple of lemons off our tree, walked out front and threw them. One hit a boy in the temple, and he fell, luckily across the dead grass of the median strip. Then there were words, and they rode off. Problem solved.
I continued watching through the lens that concentrated Lanark Avenue. Of course, there was more to Lanark II than what I’ve described. The house next to the Glassons, for instance. It was close enough. Between Val and Ernie on the other side. They were called Davies, and the son had a Kingswood that he’d fix most nights, revving it for a full ten minutes. There was a mother, and she always wore an apron, and you could see her lifting the venetians and looking out, and I guess she’d go to the phone and call her sister (or someone) and say, Oh, you wanna hear a story? That strange woman across the road … you know, the one with the cats?
The husband would come and go, and a daughter, but none of us knew who they were. Mum had tried to be friendly, Val too, but what could you do? Mum reckoned the Kingswood son was selling drugs, and she’d seen John Burrell in there a few times, but it wasn’t like she could ask Anne or Gary.
The Collinses lived next to the Davies. They had a kid my age, but we never talked much. Curtis reckoned he was a retard, and should be avoided at all costs. By retard he meant too enthusiastic, daily following us (in the early years) up and down the street, saying, ‘Mum reckons they should trim them power lines,’ as Curtis replied, ‘We gotta go now … you better do yer homework. Whatd’you say yer name was?’
‘Ted.’
‘Go on, Ted. Channel Niners starts in a minute.’
But one day the Collinses disappeared. Shoved all their crap in a loading van and drove off without so much as a goodbye. Maybe Ted eventually found a friend, but Curtis was very selective. Three was a crowd, especially when Ted ate his own snot.
A nose appeared. Much like my mine. It withdrew, and there was a face, much like mine. And this boy stood back, looked at me, and said, What’s going on?
I’s looking.
At what?
Stuff.
My name’s Colin.
He indicated number 29.
Movin’ in.
My name’s Arnold.
Arnold what?
Ruge.
Can I have a go?
The boy, with vegemite-stained face and a hole in his T-shirt where he sucked on it, came into the house. He walked past Barry Ruge, who was busy filing his corns, and Barry said, G’day.
G’day, mister. I’m Colin.
And that was it. Colin came into my room, sat on my bed and looked through my telescope. My life would never be the same. He focused on his dad, who was helping some men carry a wardrobe inside, and said, We come from Smithton.
Where’s that?
In the cuntree.
I said, We’ve always lived here. Dad built the place.
Who’s yer dad?’
Dunno.
Why?
He left.
Why?
Dunno.
Fair enough. And he focused. See, that kid there, that’s my brother, Chopper. He’s always in trouble.
Yeah? As I wondered what Mum’d say.
Mum and Dad reckons we’ll have a new start. People won’t be shitty with us. Chopper smashed all the winders on Johnson’s deli, and Mr Johnson called the cops, but Dad told him he’d pay, but it was never the same after that. Everyone reckoned we were … you know, a bit crook.
How long you stayin’?
For good.
This seemed okay. I needed a friend. Even one with food all over his face.
Colin said, What grade you in?
Two.
Like me. I was in One but I was too smart so they put me up. Mum reckons it was because Mrs Jones couldn’t handle me, but Dad reckons it’s cos I was too smart. Are you smart?
I dunno.
What school you go to?
Gleneagles.
That’s where I’m goin’. Can I sit next to you?
I sit next to Alice Fong.
She can move. What’s she, a slope?
We sat watching the movers, and Chopper, on the fence, checking out the neighbourhood, until Chris Knowlson went past and started talking to them.
Curtis said, Who’s he?
Mr Knowlson. Goes past at this time every day. Comin’ back from the pub …
What, is he pissed?
I reckon.
And who’s the old girl with the cats?
Mrs Douglas. She’s nice. Looks after me and Cicely when Mum’s at work.
Who’s Cicely?
My sister. She’s a cow.
How old?
The conversation rolled, and Colin insisted on being introduced to my sister, but then said she wasn’t worth the effort.
Older women were better, especially ones with titties.
Noises from the Champnesses’. A sound like a shoe hitting a wall. Muffled voices.
Maybe Les was on the grog again. I waited, listened, focused on the door (closed), the windows (curtains drawn), out the back, down the sides. If only I could see through walls. Again, a thud, and a voice. ‘See it through.’
Silence.
Jen came in. ‘Mum told you not to.’
‘Ssh! Les and Wendy are at it again.’
‘So what? Mind yer own business. Pop.’ And she walked off.
I waited. This time, a heavy thump, like a piano dropped from a height. Wendy stormed out the back door, paced the yard, and Les followed. He was shouting at her, and she was giving it back. Then he took her arms and she pushed and he staggered back and she moved behind the house and I couldn’t see.
Pop came in. ‘You spyin’ on people again?’
‘Les and Wendy are at it.’ Pop peered out the window and said, ‘Let us know if it gets nasty,’ and retreated. Jen said, ‘Aren’t you gonna stop him?’
They came into view. She was threatening him with a finger. I wondered what I’d do if it turned nasty. Then she walked towards the aviary, opened the door and the birds flew out. Les was quickly behind her, but she pushed him and he fell. He got up, made for the door and closed it, but the birds had gone. So he threw it open and turned to her and said, ‘There, you happy?’ and she said, ‘Very.’
He pushed her, and she fell, and he tried to grab her ankle but she kicked him and he fell again, comically. Then she said, ‘Hope you’re happy.’
Les watched the birds go. ‘Why?’
Wendy went in, slamming the door. Les returned to his aviary, examining it in case one had decided to stay, but none had. So he went inside.
Mum pulled up in the Datsun, took some groceries from the back and came in. The minute she did, Jen said, ‘Clem’s watching people with his thing again.’
Groceries deposited on the melamine, she came into my room. ‘I thought we’d resolved this?’
‘It’s Wendy,’ I said.
‘Clem?’
‘She let his birds go. All of them.’
Mum sat on my bed, moved the curtain and checked. ‘What happened?’
I explained. ‘What should we do?’
‘Serves him right. Pig of a man.’
Nothing.
‘What d’you reckon they’re doing?’
‘Ssh!’
Wendy came out carrying a bag overflowing with clothes. She stood in the middle of the front yard, then walked off. But she’d only got a few metres when she turned towards the Rosies’ house and walked down their drive.
Mum moved me, and studied the action. Jen came in and said, ‘What you doin’?’
‘Ssh! She’s just standing there … now she’s goin’ inside. I think she’s finally had enough.’
‘What should we do?’ I asked.
Mum stopped to think. ‘Wait.’
So we waited. Minutes, half an hour. At one point Les came out, checked the street, paced his yard and went back in.
‘Want me to go see if she’s okay?’
‘No. He might see.’
An hour, another, and then it was getting dark and cold. Mum told me to keep watching, and went to make coffee, but was soon back. Pop came in and she told him what was happening and he said we should mind our own business.
As the hours dragged, we took turns. Even Jen. But there was no movement from either house. Just the Tourette’s girl. Then Ernie and Fi-Fi on the nightly run, Ernie unable to wait, stopping and pissing against our gum tree.
Soon it was dark. The streetlights cast shadows over what had been the Rosies’ lawn, although now it was just dirt. No lights in number 26. No power, I guessed. Mum said, ‘She must be sitting in the dark.’
All of us, Jen, me, Pop, Mum, gathered on my bed.
Pop said, ‘We better go see.’
‘She must be hungry,’ Jen said.
Mum: ‘Yes.’ She thought about it. ‘It’s dark enough. He won’t see me.’
She left the house, crossed the road and went into the Rosies’. We waited. Jen said, ‘We oughta call the cops.’
‘They’ll sort it out,’ Pop said. ‘They always do.’
A few minutes later Mum returned. ‘I told her to come stop here, but she won’t.’
‘What’s she doing?’ I asked.
‘What’s there to do? She’s sitting on the floor, looking at the ceiling.’
‘We can’t leave her there,’ Jen said.
Mum thought about this. ‘Come on.’
She led the expedition. Jen was told to find a few blankets, Pop to fetch the old foam mattress from the shed, and she warmed leftover stew and slopped it into Tupperware. She packed some of her clothes in a bag, and toothpaste, and a hair brush, and when we were ready, said, ‘Dad, you wander over, knock on his door, say you noticed his aviary was open and the birds gone, then take him outside while we get across.’
Which he did. I carried the mattress, and Mum and Jen the supplies, over the road, round the back and into the Rosies’. I ran out to the front yard, switched on the water and returned. Mum was making up a bed.
Jen and I stood watching as Wendy ate.
She said, ‘He’s just having one of his moments.’
It seemed funny how she apologised for him, considering the cut on her face, and what looked like a black eye.
Mum said, ‘Right, you two, home.’
She had the tone. When she had the tone, you obeyed. As we went, she said, ‘Clem, get a few candles … and some Dettol, and Band-Aids.’
We checked, then crossed the road. I said, ‘See, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to look out for people.’
Pop was still talking to Les. Like nothing had happened.
‘It’s nothing like that. No one censors newspapers.’
‘You don’t reckon?’
We were our own Winstons, sitting in the front seat of the Jag, smoking. Peter had rolled a few, set them up on the dash, told me to keep it mum.
‘Someone rewrites news to favour the government?’
‘It’s more complex than that. The paper needs revenue so it tends to print the sort of things … Player profiles, stats, cigarettes, grog. That’s all people care about.’ He stroked Providence. He was a nice cat, quiet, happy to sleep, licking the hand that fed him. They kept him inside, and every now and again Val or Peter would put him in a bag, smuggle him past Ernie’s, go a few blocks and walk him on a lead.
‘So all this has to go.’ He dropped his smoke in the ashtray, resting my Orwell essay on the steering wheel and crossing out a paragraph. ‘Winston had no choice. Let’s talk about individuals as cogs in a big machine.’ He made notes on the side of my essay.
‘What about the next paragraph?’
He referred to the question: How did truth-telling cost Winston Smith his life?
‘Love,’ he said, as he continued reading.
I felt the dash: real leather. The knobs: heavy, tarnished metal. The clock, even, with its glass face. ‘Nice workmanship.’
‘You gotta earn it.’
‘I know.’
‘How’s it going?’
I ground a smoke into the bottom of the tray. ‘I’ll have it finished by October.’
‘I’m looking forward to it. Paragraph three is too abstract, you’ll have to try again.’
‘The upholstery might cost a bit.’
‘They can patch the leather so you can’t tell. How do you spell dilemma?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You should. That’s how the trouble starts.’
‘The windows work okay?’
He spat tobacco from his lips as he tackled clumsy syntax.
‘And the engine, nothing major?’
‘Doug’ll be able to help yer. Classic twelve cylinders. New plugs, filters.’ He smiled at me.
‘He’s lost interest.’
‘Na, it’s in his blood. He
just needs something to get him going.’
‘So the car’s for me? For finishing my book?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Not Pop?’
‘No, not Pop.’ He caught on. ‘I mean what I say, Clem. It’s a loada junk, but it can be fixed. Everything can be fixed with hard work.’
‘I guess you’re right. Pop still reckons his map …’
Peter looked over. ‘His map?’
I thought about it. On one hand, Pop had made me promise; on the other, you could trust Peter with anything.
‘He has this map and he reckons it shows Lasseter’s Reef.’
‘Lasseter’s Reef? But it’s not real.’
‘He reckons it is.’
He smiled his you-can’t-put-that-in-an-essay smile. ‘So it shows where there’s gold?’
‘He wants to find it.’
‘When?’
‘He wants me to come, so I gotta finish driving.’
‘So you can go the outback? In the Datsun?’
‘I guess.’
‘But it’s just a folk story.’
I explained Pop’s lucky day at the pub; his series of false starts; Nan’s map-napping; the John Burrell false alarm; the years of planning and hoping. ‘It might be real, and it might not. But he thinks it is, and I reckon he should go.’
Peter said, ‘Good thinking. Although, when he drives all that way and the map turns out to be …’
‘He’s determined to go, and I’m determined to go with him.’
Later, I returned home. Orwell was due the next day, so I found a clean sheet of paper and started writing, incorporating the corrections. Then I heard the door slam, footsteps in the hallway and Pop at the door. ‘You didn’t?’
‘What?’ I could see it in his eyes. ‘I let it slip.’
‘I’ve told you, it’s just me and you—it’s our secret.’
‘Sorry.’
‘He says, I can help with the driving. He says, I love that sorta country.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Just like yer mother: can’t keep yer trap shut. Now everyone in the neighbourhood’ll know.’
‘We could always let him come.’
‘No—bloody—way. That’s my reef, my gold, my money. I been waitin’ fer years. Forget it.’
He stood fuming, his carotid pounding. I said, ‘I’ll tell him to keep quiet.’